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The ambassador’s office had French windows leading on to a balcony that overlooked a small overgrown garden with a scum-covered pond.
‘We used to have ducks,’ said MacLehose looking down from the balcony, ‘but I’m sure they ended up in someone’s pot.’
Catesby picked up his whisky and went out to join him.
‘Don’t lean against the railing, it’s unsafe. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure about this balcony. Not sure it will support two of us. Let’s go back in.’
Catesby and the ambassador sat facing each other in rattan chairs while wall lizards raced across the crumbling plaster.
‘You probably think we’re too cosy with the Sovs,’ said MacLehose, ‘but they’re our only joy. The Vietnamese are not treating us well. They probably think we are too close to the Americans. The government minders are especially beastly to Daphne. They won’t even let her have a bicycle or language tutor.’
‘They must know she’s an intelligence officer.’
‘It’s more than that. They find her intimidating.’
‘Don’t we all?’
‘Quite. But the Vietnamese aren’t used to it. The Russians, on the other hand, adore her.’
‘Especially Scherbakov. He’s reading her a poem about his Russian soul this very moment.’ Catesby gave a sly smile. ‘I don’t suppose…’
‘No, William, there is absolutely nothing romantic. But she is using Scherbakov just as much as he is using her. You chaps are no longer just spies, you’re back-channel diplomats. Ilya tells Daphne what’s happening in the corridors of power in Hanoi and Daphne passes on gossip from Washington. And, by the way, she saved your bacon.’
‘How did she find out my bacon needed saving?’
‘Scherbakov told her. The Vietnamese wanted to shoot you.’ MacLehose reached for the whisky. ‘Top up?’
‘Yes, please.’
MacLehose poured the whisky. ‘The ice, if you want any, is safe, made from bottled water.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t want to drink it neat in this weather. As I was saying, you were headed for an unmarked shallow grave until Scherbakov intervened. He and Daphne worked out an alternative way of dealing with you that the Vietnamese would find acceptable. It is also meant they could get shot of the girl, whom the Vietnamese find an embarrassment.’
Catesby couldn’t share all his thoughts because MacLehose was not in the ‘need to know’ loop. The Russians knew that Miranda was part of a spy ring that had sent nuclear secrets to Peking. But the Sovs didn’t know that the spy ring had been busted. On the contrary, Moscow was certain that secret technology was still being passed to China because the Chinese were still making such rapid advances with nuclear weapons. Moscow’s dilemma was that they couldn’t ask Hanoi to send Miranda to Moscow for interrogation because they knew Hanoi could not risk offending China. So sending Miranda back to London was the second-best option. Catesby’s speculations were interrupted by the loud braying ring of Ambassador MacLehose’s office telephone.
‘Hello … He says it’s urgent? … I suppose you’d better ring Daphne first to make sure it’s okay with her for him to come up.’ MacLehose put the phone down and looked at Catesby. ‘That sounds a bit ominous.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘A Second Secretary from the Sov Embassy, almost certainly KGB, turned up and said he had an urgent message for Scherbakov that had to be delivered immediately. Reception said the guy was sweating and in a bit of a panic.’
‘Let’s hope Comrade Ilya hasn’t been recalled for a little chat at the Lubyanka. Maybe he gave too much away.’
‘I doubt it. He’s too cunning and careful – the message is probably about something here in Hanoi.’
‘In any case,’ said Catesby, ‘there is something I need to tell you. It’s about Miranda. I promised her that she wouldn’t be sent back to the UK. She’s terrified of being repatriated.’
‘That’s a difficult one, William. I’m not sure you should have promised that.’
‘We have discovered that she has family in Malaysia. I was hoping we could work something out.’
MacLehose looked thoughtful, ‘We’ll have to…’ There was an urgent knocking at the door. ‘Come in.’
Catesby looked up. It was Daphne Park. She seemed upset. That was unusual. Daphne was never upset, not even when confronted by a machete-wielding mob baying for blood. She nodded a terse greeting at Catesby, then looked at the ambassador.
‘You look pale, Daphne,’ said MacLehose. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Miranda Somers is dead. She died of an overdose of heroin.’
‘Where did it happen?’
‘At the Foreign Ministry. The Vietnamese were keeping her in a guest room under guard.’
‘Why,’ said Catesby, ‘were the Russians informed first? She’s British.’
‘No one has been informed, William. Ilya runs a string of Vietnamese agents. If it wasn’t for him we might have never found out. I need a drink.’
Daphne poured herself a whisky and sat in a cane chair apart from the others. Catesby stared at a wall lizard. There was a long silence punctuated only by the gentle susurrus of a slow-turning ceiling fan.
The White House: 1969
There were only three of them in the Oval Office: the President, the Director of Central Intelligence and a shadowy figure who was taking notes. It was a very private and secret meeting. The DCI looked at the man taking notes.
‘This is, Mr President, our most closely held secret.’
The President caught the nuance. ‘Richard, I would prefer that,’ the President said the name of the note-taker, ‘remains so that he can hear what you have to say.’
The DCI stirred uneasily. ‘Yes, Mr President, if you think it wise.’
‘I do. Carry on.’
‘The policy began during the Kennedy administration when Allen Dulles was DCI.’
‘The bastard who fucked up the Bay of Pigs.’
‘That’s right, Mr President. Dulles’s idea was based on the old military precept that our enemy’s enemy is our friend. It was a very risky policy, but one that Kennedy endorsed.’
‘Let it never be said that Dick Nixon was too cowardly to take the same fucking risks as Jack Kennedy.’
‘Yes, Mr President. The policy in question began when we realised that the rift between the Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China was deep and permanent – and the two countries were sworn enemies.’ The DCI paused and looked at the third person. ‘I’m not really certain, Mr President, that I can continue. This is a top secret and highly sensitive matter which has serious ramifications both internationally and domestically.’
‘And that’s why I want,’ he nodded at the note-taker and said his name, ‘to hear about it.’
The DCI sighed and closed his briefing folder.
‘Perhaps, Richard,’ said the President, ‘I can continue where you left off. It has for some time been one of the wonders of the world how a nation of barefoot peasants, who couldn’t even manufacture their own bicycles, managed to develop atomic and hydrogen nuclear weapons more quickly than the Soviet Union and the United States. What’s your theory? You’re supposed to be head of the fucking CIA.’
‘I think, sir, you already know the answer.’
‘And it is totally fucking shocking. I’ve half-suspected it for years, but I never believed it could be true. I cannot believe that previous US Presidents and Directors of the CIA conspired to provide Red China with nuclear weapons. Do you realise, Richard, that those actions amount to fucking treason? You have given lethal weapons of mass destruction to an enemy of the United States of America! Weapons that may one day vaporise San Diego, Los Angeles and San Francisco – if not the whole of the USA.’
‘It was, Mr President, a policy that had already been implemented before I became DCI. There was nothing I could do to reverse it or…’
‘I don’t want to hear your self-justification
s.’
‘It was not, sir, a policy that I would have condoned.’
‘What on earth were they thinking?’
‘The purpose of the policy was to threaten the Soviet Union on two fronts. Remember that Russia has a land border with China that stretches over 2,700 miles. Confronted by a hostile and nuclear-armed China, the USSR would never be able to contemplate war or expansion into Europe or anywhere else. And, perhaps, that policy will one day fatally weaken the Soviet Union and lead to its downfall.’
‘But there are risks.’
‘There certainly are.’
The President nodded and frowned. ‘It seems to me the biggest risk, aside from Chinese nukes landing in California, is disclosure. How are we able to disguise the fact, cover up the fact, that we provided this information to China? If it ever becomes public, it will be lethal.’
‘We helped set up a pro-Peking nuclear spy ring in Britain. The idea being that we could always blame poor British security for leaking nuclear secrets to China.’
‘I hope,’ said the President, ‘there are no fingerprints that could implicate the CIA.’
‘No, Mr President, we made use of a Communist spy named Jeffers Cauldwell, whom we turned. Cauldwell was a US diplomat who had originally been a spy for the Soviet Union. At some point, he decided that Maoism was the true Holy Grail of Communism and the USSR had sold out. Not long after his conversion to Maoism, we arrested him and held him secretly in solitary confinement. After eighteen months of interrogation, Cauldwell finally broke and agreed to work for us. We allowed him to escape to Cuba.’
‘So in the end, Cauldwell became an American hero.’
‘No, Mr President, he remains to this day a committed Maoist. His agreement to do our bidding in England was what he called a “Faustian pact with Satan”. Cauldwell believed working in collaboration with us was a price worth paying to enable China to gain access to nuclear weapons.’
‘Realpolitik,’ said the shadowy figure with the notepad.
‘I think, Henry, that the damage has already been done. We can’t put the genie back in the bottle.’ The President paused. ‘Since we can’t reverse the Chinese policy, perhaps we should take it further.’
‘What have you in mind, sir?’ asked the note-taker
‘As we have armed China, maybe the time has come for us to befriend them. We have left them in the cold for too long. Can you start planning an official visit? One that will shake the world.’
London: October, 1969
Catesby was given the address by Henry Bone. The house was located on a quiet street in Chelsea between King’s Road and the river. It wasn’t the sort of place where Catesby had expected Lady Somers to live. He would have imagined Kensington or Knightsbridge to be more her taste. Chelsea certainly was an expensive neighbourhood, but one that was becoming more and more inhabited by wealthy pop stars, film types and artists.
Catesby hated what he was going to have to do. But he had been thoroughly briefed by the head of Five as well as his boss at SIS. He had also had a meeting with the Secretary of State for Defence. Catesby tried hard not to stare at the Secretary’s marvellously bushy eyebrows, like an overgrown hedgerow. He half-expected to see nesting robins darting in and out. The message from everyone Catesby spoke to was the same. It wasn’t going to be a pleasant business. But he had to do it.
There was a car and driver at his disposal, but Catesby opted for the Circle Line to Sloane Square. It was a short hop, but he emerged into a completely different universe from the bowler hats and rolled brollies of St James’s. Catesby wasn’t wearing a bowler, just a black lounge suit, but he still felt like an alien being as he surfaced into the sunlight and youth of King’s Road. It was a heaving blur of bright colours, Vespa scooters, mini-skirts, boots and bobbed hair. It was Miranda’s world, but she wasn’t there to take it in. Catesby passed a boutique with the name ‘Granny Takes a Trip’. A heart-shaped psychedelic message on the window puffed: ‘Granny Sells Clothes To Wear Before You Make Love’. He was tempted to go in and buy something for his sister, but lost his nerve. Maybe, he thought darkly, he should get something for Lady Somers instead – but not from there. Catesby continued walking and passed an art house cinema showing Lindsay Anderson’s if…. The film poster posed the question ‘Which side will you be on?’ Indeed, thought Catesby. Indeed. The film was set in a ridiculous public school and ended with a pitched gun battle between the boys and masters. It was a film about rebellion, but Catesby much preferred the tale of the borstal boy in The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. Catesby had cried a bit at the end. He was a long-distance runner too, whenever he had some time off, and he knew the pain and loneliness of the sport.
Catesby realised that he was sauntering and wasting time. He was trying to put off doing what he had been sent to do. Maybe he wouldn’t do it; maybe he would disappear into the crowds of the fresh new Britain that swirled around him and never go back to the grey repression of Century House and the Secret State. Granny of the love clothes shop didn’t sound too young; maybe he could get something going with her. He’d let his hair grow and serve behind the counter in a bright rainbow-coloured jumper with his OBE ironically draped around his neck. Catesby laughed out loud and drew a few stares. Maybe he would wear his OBE next time he made love. But, he thought, it wasn’t much of a joke. A lot of toffs did wear their gongs while they were doing it. But not ironically. Unlike them, Catesby approved of the new liberated outrageous Britain that was thumbing its nose at authority. But he feared it wouldn’t last. He knew that the heavy black boot of conservatism and control was poised and ready to stomp. Before he had been dispatched to Southeast Asia, Catesby had thought rumours of a military coup were as preposterous and silly as UFOs. Now he wasn’t so sure. And that was another reason why he had better pay his visit to Lady Somers. Catesby passed a shop advertising psychedelic love and checked his watch. There was still time to buy her a present. He remembered what Miranda had said about her.
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The house was a perfect example of London Georgian. It ticked all the right boxes from the cast-iron railings with pointy spikes that guarded the cellar entrance to the plain Hepworth chimney pots with roll tops. And, unlike the vulgar brass door furniture of its neighbours, Lady Somers’ front door had cast-iron fittings painted gloss black, including a lion head’s knocker. According to Henry Bone, brass door fittings on a Georgian house are always the sign of a parvenu. Catesby lifted the heavy cast-iron ring that passed through the lion’s jaws and knocked firmly.
When Lady Somers answered the door she was wearing a cardigan and black trousers so her famous legs were not on display. She put out one hand, while the other pulled her cardigan tight around her as if it were armour. Catesby shook her hand. It was cold as ice.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she said. ‘Would you like coffee, tea – or a drink?’
‘Please don’t go to any trouble.’
‘I was going to have tea myself. It won’t be any trouble.’
‘Thank you. Tea for me would be fine.’
‘Any particular sort?’
‘Darjeeling, please.’
Lady Somers suddenly seemed a little flustered.
‘If you haven’t got Darjeeling, any sort of tea would be fine.’
‘No, it’s not that. Why don’t you go up to my study? It’s on the second floor. We’ll talk there. It’s much nicer. I’ll bring the tea.’
As Catesby mounted the stairs, he took in an impressive collection of art that ranged from eighteenth-century English oil paintings to ancient Chinese lithographs. The most unusual was of a man with a shaved head being tortured on a rack. The other odd and incongruous thing was an oar from an Oxford Eight. A brass plate indicated that the oar belonged to The Right Honourable Guy Louis de la Croix Somers. It took Catesby a second to realise that it was Lady Somers’ oar. That must have been her former name and she had been an Oxford blue. Catesby kept glancing around as he made his way to the study, but there
was no sign of the famous Poussins.
It was a large study with armchairs covered in loose chintz and a coffee table. Lady Somers’ desk faced west over a garden with espalier fruit trees. You could see the river and Battersea Bridge, but not the power station. It was a nice place to work – and a nice place to photograph nuclear secrets. For a second or two Catesby thought he could hear Miranda’s ghost clicking away with Cauldwell’s spy camera, but then realised it was only the click of china as Lady Somers mounted the stairs with a tea tray.
As she came in, she closed the door behind her with a deft flick of ankle and heel. ‘Please sit down.’
Catesby sank into an armchair and placed the present he had bought her on the floor beside him, leaning upright against the chair.
‘What have you got in that bag? Handcuffs?’
‘No, just a token something.’
She began to pour the tea. ‘I’ve already written my resignation letter. But I suppose that’s very wishful thinking. I am sure it’s going to involve far more than simply asking me to resign.’
‘There is, Lady Somers, going to be a full series of interrogations – debriefings if you like – but there is no intention of putting you under arrest.’ Catesby paused and fidgeted. His hand shook and he rattled the cup against the saucer as he sipped his tea. ‘But that’s not primarily why I’m here. I’m not here for plea bargaining – or anything like it.’
Lady Somers looked at him. Catesby looked away. Lady Somers put down her teacup and examined the veins on the back of her hand.
Catesby closed his eyes, which felt strained and moist. He had been given some awful jobs in his time in the service, but this was one of the worst – the worst. How do you tell a parent that her only child is dead? Catesby felt a wave of self-loathing. He shouldn’t be feeling sorry for himself; he should be feeling sorry for the woman opposite. He opened his eyes. She was staring directly at him.
She spoke in whisper. ‘What is it?’
‘Miranda is dead.’
There was no shock on Lady Somers’ face, no disbelief, just numbness. Finally, she buried her face in her hands.
The Whitehall Mandarin Page 37